You always leave the villain
by ElnaKernor
Summary: Crossover with the movie High Crimes, with John being Tom Kubik/Ron Chapman. John's POV ( or what he knows, without it being from his POV ) of High Crimes, in a world where even secrets have secrets, and not everything the movie tells us is the whole truth.
1. Just a face

_Before he was John Reese, before the CIA, John already made terrible life choices. While he is supposed to be a normal Green Beret doing his thing, the commandant secretly send him to investigate ( because reasons ) in San Francisco, where he meets Claire Grimaldi, lawyer, under the name Tom Kubik. One moment of insanity later, he's married, and ready to have a child... But his mission is about to end, and another terrible life decision from his past no one knows about is waiting to kick him in the face. With her husband accused of first degree murders by the military, Claire decides to go and prove "Tom" innocent... Except he isn't "Tom"._  
 _John's POV ( or what he knows, without it being from his POV ) of High Crimes, in a world where even secrets have secrets, and not everything the movie tells us is the whole truth._

* * *

 _So, let's see... Yes, I'm here to complicate John's timeline just a bit more._

 _This is a crossover with High Crimes, where Caviezel plays Tom Kubik, aka Ron Chapman; these two just became yet other fake identities of John Reese, congrats! The only actual difference with the movie is that Claire and Tom haven't been married for years, to make it fit into John's timeline._

 _There are a few mentions to the other parts of my headcanon about the Life of John Reese, which is mostly a crossover with Frequency ( both movie and TV show ); if you want details, read the other works in this series (See Missong Books, PoIxFrequencyTV crossover), but it's not overly important, considering we don't actually know much about John's past._

 _I've cut this story into 24 chapters, more or less ( could change, maybe )._  
 _And no, it's not a happy story. But I'm obsessed with Reese, and I'm making him the most complicated background ever, because reasons. Also, don't ask how in hell John ended up investigating in San Francisco while he was a Green Beret, aside from what's said in this first chapter, because I don't care if it's not plausible; that's why I made it "highly unorthodox" and unofficial._

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Just a face**

John was working on a project when Claire entered the garage / workshop. His job as a military consultant might be a cover, but it was a cover he was taking to heart. After all, if he wanted to find anything worth the months he had spent away from his unit, John had to look the part. His job was a cover... but his cover was the key to the end of his mission.

When Wilkes and Greyson had been killed despite wearing their bulletproof vests, the other guys had first thought they both had been unlucky – that they had ended up with defective gear; it happened, and that was unlucky, but it happened. Except it wasn't only one, but two victims there, shot almost through the heart. The vests had been literally useless.

John had said so to Garcia, and apparently his thoughts had gone around to the acting commandant, who had noticed a disturbingly high number of defective bulletproof vests, which weren't that bulletproof, in the gear they had just received.

Commandant Jarosz had him called a morning, to John's surprise. He was, after all, just another Green Beret – a very good one, perhaps, but that was it.

It turned out the commandant was curious about John's thoughts on the matter of the defective vests. He had said the truth – that it seemed unlikely the manufacturers had delivered so many defective products in one group, without knowing about the defaults beforehand.

The commandant had looked at him without saying a word, as he was pointing out several reasons why the situation was suspicious – then the man had pushed a document for him to look at: the exact number of bulletproof vests failures since they had received the new gear.

It had been high. And when the commandant had talked about it – the numbers had unexpectedly changed. The only reason to that he could see, was that the manufacturers had been perfectly aware of the defaults, but hadn't wanted to waste the "perfect" and costly military gear. And now, someone was covering for them, somewhere in between the battlefield and the higher office.

The commandant had then remarked that John seemed very knowledgeable in how certain... things went. A deductive man, really. With just the right skills to investigate the death of his fellow soldiers. Not skills his past explained. "I've dug around your file a bit, Rykes, and strangely enough, the U.S. Marshals Service called, kindly asking me to drop it. Now, I have no idea how a witness under protection managed to enlist, Rykes, but I have a feeling you aren't a stranger to investigating, and I need someone to go back home, get close to these freaking Keller Industries, and get me the evidence I need to make them pay."

John had given the commandant that special smile of his, the one he always used when he was definitely out of context, and didn't know what to answer, except something witty. He didn't think it was a normal mission for a soldier, and he knew he was right about that, but... The offer was tempting, he had to admit. The commandant had assured him that, should the unofficial mission be successful, no one would ever officially know he hadn't been with his unit for a time. Of course, the other guys would know, it wasn't as if they'd be blind to his absence – they just wouldn't know the real reason for his absence... and the paperwork would disappear in an administrative black hole.

This was highly unorthodox, of course, but John couldn't pretend he had always lived by the rules.

And so here he was, seven months later, living in Marin City, working in San Franscisco as a military consultant for Keller Industries. He had almost everything he needed to bring them down. Before long, he'd be back with his unit – medical leave, they thought.

Except...

Except John had made a mistake, and before he knew it, he had been married for four months, under a name that wasn't his – not that it changed much of anything, considering Rykes wasn't his birth name either, thanks to WITSEC. Tom Kubik – not John, this time, and perhaps that hurt more than his fake family name – had met Claire Grimaldi, attorney at law for a large law firm, only one week after coming into existence. They had flirted a bit – he was still trying to forget Jessica, and Claire was helping him with that; of course, she didn't know the whole story. Then they had started dating, and John – Tom – had never thought things would go so far, but after three months, he had just gone insane – that had to be it, because, really? – and asked Claire to marry him one morning.

It wouldn't have been such a problem if they had taken their time, like everyone else – John'd have ended it, broken both their hearts, after a day or two, realizing the mistake he was making. But he had been way too aware that he'd change his mind, too unwilling to end it, and Claire had been too much in love to question his proposition, not to agree with it: they had driven all the way to Las Vegas, and gotten married the very same night.

The next morning, John knew he had made the worst choice of his life – including enlisting again and telling Jessica not to wait for him. In fact, it was probably because of the choice he had made concerning Jessica, that he had allowed himself to be so reckless with Claire. He... hadn't wanted it to happen again, he guessed.

Needless to say his contact hadn't been overjoyed with the news – and John had been ashamed of himself; of what he was going to do to Claire, with his rash decision, his unthought desire to have a family, a normal life.

He'd finish the mission, and he'd go back to his unit, that he had sworn. Then, once his tour of duty is finished, he'd see... If Claire still wanted him, he'd come back – he'd come clean before leaving of course. If she wanted to be Claire Rykes, despite everything, despite having been led to believe she was now Clair Kubik, then they'd live together again.

If she didn't...

Then he'd disappear from her life.

It was John's decision – he didn't know why, but he hadn't been able to stop himself from proposing to her, and soon he'd have to pay the price, that much was certain. Perhaps he was too much in love.

That was probably the safest answer to that question.

Except, he was going to make another bad decision, and he still couldn't stop himself from dismissing the unwanted statement every time it reminded him of it.

When Claire came into the workshop, all happy and full of life, ready to go to the courthouse, that morning, as John – Tom Kubik – was working on a project for Keller Industries, she had a really tempting, very distracting offer for him.

She wanted a child, and he knew it. He wanted one too – a girl, a boy, he didn't care, he'd love them anyway. They had talked about it – each conversation on the subject had him forget everything about his soon-to-come departure.

They had talked about it even before getting married.

It had to say something about John, that despite everything that should have convinced him not to propose, that despite the fact that if Claire got pregnant he'd have to leave her and he knew it, that he couldn't get himself away from her.

It had to say something about him, and he was pretty sure it wasn't a good comment.

He had still done it – and every time he was with Claire, his guilt was pushed away, forgotten, in front of whatever it was that was possessing him.

John was all too aware of his failure on that matter, as soon as he was alone again. He couldn't do a thing about it for all that. Whatever was possessing him – he hoped it was love, and not only a desperate need for normalcy. If it was love, at least it'd mean he was being honest with Claire on one point.

If it wasn't...

The thoughts disappeared from his mind, as always, as his wife told him it was the day. As they started loving each other more deeply, if only for a few minutes, if only for an instant. As their skin touched the other's, in a moment of love and bliss.

Each time they were together, John could almost imagine he was Tom Kubik – that he had a future here, with this woman. That once he'd be done with Keller Industries, he would still be able to live with her – even if it took a bit more time away, with his unit, before it could happen. That she'd understand, that she'd wait for him. That, in the end, even if she didn't know it yet, it wasn't Tom Kubik she loved, but John Rykes.

Something he had thought about Jessica too, and see how that had ended...

He had left Jessica for her own sake – after having done everything to stay with her, after having left the army – when he had realized he couldn't go away from the battlefield yet, not after September 11th. He didn't want her to wait for him, when he didn't even think he'd come back. He had quit, because he had been worried she wouldn't wait for him...

And then he had gone back anyway, and told her to move on.

John wanted to believe it would be different with Claire – even if Jessica still ached in his heart – but he had to admit, things weren't looking that great. To begin with, he was doing the exact same thing he had done with Jessica, but worse: he had married her right away, instead of waiting for the end of his tour of duty, because he was afraid she wouldn't wait for him.

...And now he was worried that he'd leave her too, for her own sake, in the end.

These thoughts, they existed even as they were together, Claire and him – Claire and Tom Kubik, not Claire and John Rykes. They were hidden, drowned by the happiness, by the love – but sometimes, they appeared to him in flashes, even when they were together.

Then John was almost desperate not to let her go – not that it showed. He was too good at hiding these kind of things

When Claire left, to go to the courtroom, to do her lawyer thing, John was left alone in the workshop – the shame, the unease, the disgust with himself all came back at once.

He sat on the bench, under the window, and held his head in his hands.

What was he doing?

He knew it all too well, and at the same time he had no idea. He knew what, he knew why, he knew how... He just couldn't explain.

He walked to the bathroom, at the back of the garage, and went to stand before the sink. Water poured from the tap and onto his hands. It was cold, harsh – punishing. He passed his hands over his face, water rolling, freezing, onto, into his face; liquid blades tearing his skin open.

When John opened his eyes again, the face in the mirror was still the same – no smile, not ever again, not when Claire wasn't present, not when he wasn't supposed to play the part of Tom Kubik for Keller Industries. Just a face – a handsome face, some had said, but just a face nonetheless; without a smile.

The smile normal people could have on their face, even when they are alone, just because they are happy in their life... John was able to smile, even genuinely, but never alone; not anymore. He had lost that smile a long time ago.

Samantha had been able to bring it back, but it hadn't lasted – he had gone into WITSEC only one month after they had met, and he wasn't going to ask her to abandon her life to come with him. Jessica too – but he had destroyed that chance too. And now, Claire.

But John wasn't able to smile genuinely when he was alone anymore, not even with Jessica or Claire in his life. He smiled with his friends, with the woman he loved, and it was genuine.

But a lonely smile... It didn't exist for him anymore.

Not since his father's death, when he was eight years old. Not after his mother's murder, when he was thirteen. Not after what had happened in El Salvador. Not after a serial killer he had been tracking, the one who had murdered his mother, had broken into his apartment and attacked him – only earning a slit throat for his efforts, which had somehow landed John in WITSEC. Not after what he had seen as a soldier.

John wasn't even John anymore. Sure, he could say John really was his name – after all, his mother had named him so – and it wouldn't be a lie. But "John Rykes" wasn't his birth name, even if, today, it was officially his name. And "Tom Kubik" wasn't his name either, not even officially – but it was the name his wife was married to.

Sometimes, John wondered who he was.

He had had so many names, and some were more real than some others – John Rykes, for example, was real to him, even if it wasn't his birth name – but he wasn't someone who hid under others identities. In a way, he was John Rykes, and he was Tom Kubik – he had birth certificates to go with the claim, and the two identities weren't constructs; they were him, down to a T.

The question wasn't who John wasn't... But who was he?

He was all these people at the same time, because they were the same person – not only faces, not lies. The problem didn't lie with who he wasn't. The problem was, he wasn't sure he still had a name to describe all these people into one.

And perhaps that was the reason he couldn't be true to Claire; because she only knew one of him.


	2. A deeper grave

**Chapter 2: A deeper grave**

Tom Kubik was done with work that day, but John Rykes still had to see someone before he could go back home. Claire was busy at her law firm anyway, it wasn't as if she'd miss him.

It was always like that, since they had gotten married. John used any hole he could in his wife's timetable, either to get further info on Keller Industries, or to check in and report. He lied to her on a daily basis, and it made him sick – but he knew it was the only way, he knew... he knew that in the end, it was all his fault anyway. He shouldn't have proposed, and that was it. He should have...

What? Just dated her, only to inform her at the end of the investigation that he wasn't exactly Tom Kubik? But, except for his true job, and his name, he hadn't lied about anything; as far as John was concerned, he was Tom Kubik, as he much as he was John Rykes, or Ron Chapman. The only identity more genuine than those three would perhaps be John Sullivan, his birth identity...

But John Sullivan was gone, for all intents. No ties were left with his old life. John Sullivan wasn't any more real than the others, in a way.

Of course, he could have waited, and told her before leaving, to hope that she'd forgive him, that she'd wait for him. For John Rykes, at least.

But was it really that different from what he had done? Yes, marriage was stronger than dating, but in the end, the feelings would have been exactly the same, wound't they?

Betrayal.

Mario Quaggia, former Green Beret, was an old friend of Commandant Jarosz, ten years or so older than John, and these days, he was John's contact with his superior. John wasn't exactly sure what the man did with his time, except helping out Jarosz, but he sure seemed to thrive being part of an off-the-book investigation.

Quaggia had also been far from delighted at the news of the Kubiks' marriage, but he hadn't been too harsh on John, who was regretful enough for two – always the same, each time Claire wasn't there, the truth of his situation got back to him, and hit him in the guts.

The older man was the only one John could really confide into, on some points at least.

John let his despair show as he walked to the bar. Quaggia was already here, two beers on the table. John sat down without a word, and took the offered drink.

Quaggia drank his entirely. Then he gave the younger man a complete look-over.

"What did you do this time, Rykes?"

John put down his glass. A strangled sound passed his lips, until it slowly became a shaky laughter.

This was getting ridiculous, really. How could it have come to that?

"Claire convinced me to have a kid."

At first, the older man just stared at him, as if waiting for the end of the joke. Then he sighed, and slowly passed his hands on his face.

"You're making a mistake, boy, and you know it."

John gave him a look of anger – at himself, at the older man, at the situation in general, he didn't know, and perhaps, at this point, he didn't care.

Quaggia only shifted on his chair, his glass still in his hand.

"Or perhaps you're totally in control? Maybe you married her while knowing you'd have to break her heart, maybe you intend to get her pregnant, only so that you can play perfect family. Pleasant for you, and for her too... except when the big reveal'll come. But you, you don't care, do you? You need to appear completely normal for your cover. Who would think you're just at Keller Industries for a short while, the time to get what you need, when you have a perfect wife and a perfect life? And when Claire Kubik isn't needed anymore, well... It was fun, goodbye. I didn't think you were that cruel, Rykes."

John's fist fell hard on the bar table, startling a few of the other clients, who risked a glance in their direction – and quickly looked away. Teeth gritted, he was doing his best not to yell something untoward at Mario Quaggia.

He was still in control...

Except when it came to Claire.

The older man glanced at the onlookers – not many left, not after John's glare – and waved a curious woman away. He didn't need anyone staring at his undercover guy for too long, just when Tom Kubik was falling apart, letting John Rykes' distress take over.

Quaggia looked back at the young man – so good at not letting anything show, even at pretending fake feelings if needed, but unable to distantiate himself from his aliases – they were him, no matter how you looked at it, and whatever they did, John would never pretend he hadn't done it. It made him a good person, but in his line of work...

When you knew that John Rykes would do what's needed, no matter what, as long as he agreed that it was impossible to do differently, it wasn't all that reassuring. It ensured he'd never go and do something purely inhuman, but it also meant that Rykes had the weight of the world on his shoulders, from time to time.

"Of course you aren't. And that's why you're going to regret it."

Perhaps the older man shouldn't have told Rykes to continue living for himself, even as he pretented to be someone else – because in the end, Tom Kubik had become John Rykes.

"You're a freaking mess, kid. I should have known, right when you started to also talk about her to me, when you started telling me more than the usual reports. This girl... She's going to be your undoing, you know that?"

John just looked away.

"Listen, Rykes. I've seen some of your file, and honestly, you're a very good soldier. Exceptional at following orders, and yet terrible at doing exactly what you're told, which makes you reliable and unpredictable at the same time. You... you're able to choose the best option between what's right and what's necessary, and that, boy, that's not something everyone can do. Also, you're oddly good at all this investigation stuff, which has me wondering what you did before the army, but that aside..."

John hadn't ever said a thing about his police past, and Quaggia hadn't ever asked. But the older man wasn't an idiot, and John hadn't particularly hidden his skills when investigating Keller Industries.

"Your problem, kid... is your qualities. Despite everything you can do, everything you did... You still care about people. And you cared way too much about that woman, from the very beginning."

John didn't need anyone to tell him that – he knew it well enough on his own.

"And now, you've put yourself in a terrible situation. If – when she finds out, her reaction will tear you apart. I guess you did all that because you didn't want to allow yourself to let her drift away, but you went way too far. But if on top of that you get her pregnant..."

Quaggia's second order arrived, and the older man took a sip of beer before continuing.

"Not only you'll lose her, but you'll also lose the child, Rykes."

John just glared at his own glass for a moment, then drank it all at once. After that only he looked the other man in the eyes.

"I'm almost done with Keller Industries. I've all the evidence we need to bring them down, but I couldn't get it out of the office today. I'll bring it to you tomorrow, same hour, same place."

Quaggia gave him a look – the one that said, nice try, kiddo, but in the end, you brought the conversation back to the issue.

"Yeah, and after that, Rykes, what happens? I'll tell you what happens. After tomorrow, Jerosz won't have any reason to leave you here, and you'll have to go back to your unit. At most, you'll have one week to explain everything to the unlucky mom-to-be. Best scenario, she smacks you to the end of the Earth, and promise you a second round for when you'll come back, supposing you don't get yourself killed in Afghanistan. Worst scenario, she borrows the neighbors' gun and shoots you in the heart. So, for your sake, I hope that your first attempt at being a dad didn't work. At least you wouldn't be leaving a single mother behind."

"You don't understand, Quaggia! I have absolutely no control over my own actions when I'm with her! I just..."

"You love her so much you don't know what to do with it, except digging yourself a deeper grave."

John sniffed, and shook his head. He hadn't ever felt that way, except with Jessica...

"I'm a fool."

Quaggia paid for the beers, and they got up from their table, but the older man didn't leave right away, as he usually did. Instead, they ended up walking slowly down the streets, towards Tom's and Claire's house.

"You're in love, kid, that's all. But I fear that you're so desperate about it, that it's what will cost you everything."

Quaggia looked for a long time at the house – large, but not too much, just enough to be comfortable, costly, and homely. Both Kubiks' jobs paid well, and he knew that John had already arranged things to simply leave the house to his wife entirely when he'd have to go.

"Your lady's not a fool, kid. She might have noticed something off about 'Tom Kubik', at some point, and then you'd have had problems. This is Jerosz's mission, but never forget it's not official in any way, and if it isn't successful, I'm not positive you'll get back unscathed."

John laughed drily. He had his eyes on two teens, playing ball just down the street. High school, perhaps, or in their first year at college. Young enough. At that age, John was...

Well.

Not where anyone thought he had been, though no one knew where exactly he had disappeared to at seventeen years old, except himself, of course. His brother hadn't exactly appreciated, when John had simply left – their foster mother had just died, and he had been in a bad place for some time already, but that was no excuse for disappearing without a word. Not that it changed much of anything, now that he was in WITSEC. The reason had changed, but Frank still had no idea where he was, if he was alright...

If he was even alive.

"I'm not sure I want to get out unscathed, Quaggia. I'm not even sure there is something I still want in this world. I can think of nothing that I'd want strongly enough not to break my own life into pieces, at least."

If there was something like that, John would probably not be throwing his life away any time he could. He pretended he wanted to live, but in the end... It always ended the same way. With Jessica, the Twin Towers had done it. With Claire... He was pretending even harder, that much was certain, but it would only get them more wounded, and that... that was on him.

If he wanted, not to live, but to have a life – one life – he wouldn't have made sure the Marshals' file about John Sullivan and John Rykes got separated.

Claire, Jessica, Frank... they were better off without him anyway.

He had too much darkness in him not to hurt them, one way or another.

One of the teenagers kicked the ball well past his friend, into Tom Kubik's garden.

Quaggia patted him in the back, and shrugged.

"You seem to have at least one of these things, with your Claire, boy. And I sure hope, for your own sake, that she'll still have you despite everything you've kept from her, because if she doesn't..."

John moved to go and get the ball before one of the two teens tried to climb past the fence – not difficult, mind you, but he'd rather not have to tell them to get out of his property. Not now, not today, not in this mood.

"See you later, Quaggia."

The older man watched him as he caught an adventurous young man who was going to invade his home in order to get the ball back. He didn't like what he was seeing.

Tom Kubik was back – but since Tom Kubik was just another name for John Rykes, since there was no real difference between the two, what it really meant, was that John was shutting everything back in. And if there was one thing Mario Quaggia had done during the last months, it was keeping an eye on John Rykes; it was getting to know the man behind the name – whichever name he used at the time.

The former Green Beret could say that, if nothing else, about Rykes: the man had a lot bottled in, and it wouldn't be surprising if he managed to keep it all inside, without it ever blowing up. Which was a good thing, in the sense that Rykes usually had a very good self-control despite his issues – but thatt also was far from a good thing, considering the darkness was still there. Eroding the young man himself.

"...or else you'll just keep drifting away, until you reach a place where no one will be there to help."


	3. To undo a lie

**Chapter 3: To** **undo a lie**

It was late at night when John suddenly woke up, alert.

Something – someone was here, in the house. Someone who didn't belong.

It almost scared him, how he had gotten used to the house, after only a few months of living here, how he didn't count Claire's presence as unnatural anymore. How, in no more than a few days, it would all be gone again. He'd be gone again, and unsure whether or not he'd ever come back.

Almost, because John immediately focused on the noise that had woken him up. The kind of sounds there shouldn't be in a house at night, when everyone was asleep, when no one was supposed to be walking down there.

He got up, made sure Claire was awake, that she'd close the door behind him – he didn't want the intruders to come and hurt her, should they get past him, and, more likely to happen, he didn't want her seeing him taking care of whatever was happening. He had no idea of who was down there, after all, rummaging where they shouldn't. He couldn't swear things wouldn't get bloody.

Claire knew he was dangerous enough in a fight; they had had to deal with a high thug a few weeks before, and John had done his best to keep the right balance between protecting everyone, and being Tom Kubik – nothing too military, nothing too expert, but just enough skill to get the drugged scum under control until the police arrived.

But down the stairs, John had no idea who he'd face.

Perhaps Keller Industries had finally caught up on his investigation, and had sent someone to take care of him, to get the file he had on them. Perhaps they even knew that Tom Kubik wasn't real.

John didn't want to have to deal with a dangerous killer before the eyes of his wife, nor did he want her to hear the truth about who he was from anyone else's mouth. The first scenario could end in death, and he'd have a hard time explaining to Claire why a trained assassin was in their house; the second scenario simply took away all his chances that she'd keep him, even after knowing the truth.

The only way to undo a lie – and that didn't always work – was to admit it yourself. Not to let anyone twist it into something else, turning it into even more of a betrayal.

John moved down the stairs without a sound, used to silent approachs. If he did it right, he might even get a feel of the intruders – two, at least, because people don't usually talk and answer when they're doing a solitary break-in. See how they moved, if they were former soldiers...

Know what he was up against.

Though, from the way they were hissing at each other to get the hell out, John already knew they weren't professionnals, and probably not so much of a danger. He relaxed a bit – not too much, though. He wasn't going to foolishly underestimate the potential danger. For all he knew, the two weren't that stupid, but a distraction, and there was a third man waiting patiently for him to come down.

A tad paranoid, perhaps, but you never were paranoid enough when you worked undercover on a secret mission.

One of the two intruders turned his head to look at John for a moment, looking surprised to see him there, as if he had really thought the ruckus they were making wouldn't wake the owners up. Then he turned back, and disappeared in the night.

John sighed, frankly doubting that the college-aged face and the deer-in-the-headlights look belonged to a hired hand.

"Damn kids."

He looked at the mess they had left, as he called Claire to reassure her. A burglary, while they were home... just the day before his last. Not long before Christmas, at that. This... This was going to be the worst Christmas memories Claire would have.

Two days. He was leaving in two days. He was leaving her alone – perhaps forever. And Claire didn't even know that yet. He...

How could he do that to her?

Claire walked down the stairs, phone in hand, calling the police, and John immediately forgot all about his guilt, about the forthcoming disaster. Being with Claire, it was like... living in the instant. He wasn't Tom Kubik, he knew that, of course, but in these moments, he didn't feel like his life was such a shattered timeline. All the things he had lost – all the things he had let go of, they didn't matter so much in these moments.

It was like having a life again.

He must have made a strange face, because Claire asked him if he was alright. John blinked, smiled, answered:

"Of course, Honey."

Then, remembering the mess – the fact that no, Claire didn't know yet – John realized she was probably worried because of the college kids who had broken in.

"They were certainly just messing around, because they left right away. In fact, I think they were drunk or something, or acting on a dare. Nothing I can't handle, Claire."

That, at least, was true. He had gone down the stairs expecting some dangerous criminals, but he had just gotten drunk kids to deal with. And anyway, there wasn't much John couldn't handle, in the ranks of home invaders. Unless they were noticeably bigger, to the point it became slightly ridiculous, he could take on about anyone. And John wasn't exactly small to begin with.

"Tom..."

Used to the name – used to thinking of it as his, now – John tried a reassuring smile. He wasn't exactly sure what warranted the worry in Claire's voice, but he was going to do his best for it to disappear.

"Really, Claire, they just left, like that. They're the kind of kids who want to be cool and dark, but can't handle a fight for the life of them."

"You couldn't know that, Tom. You shouldn't have come down."

He passed an arm behind her head, squeezed her against him lightly, and kissed her forehead.

"So cute of you to worry... but I'm fine. The police will tell you there wasn't any danger, you'll see. So, meanwhile, let's just sit down, and have a drink to relax?"

Claire gave him a dubious look – the one her clients usually got when she wasn't convinced of their honesty. "A lawyer must know everything, to defend you properly, Mister -!"

If she knew how much her own husband had lied to her – not that much actually, but just enough for it to become important. Yes, he was an orphan – but he hadn't always been. Yes he had been in a foster home – but he had already been thirteen by that time, and his brother had been with him.

No, he wasn't a military consultant – at least, he hadn't been until seven months ago. No, his real name wasn't Tom Kubik – though Tom Kubik was very much him, in feelings, tastes, ideas.

John's heart clenched – but he didn't listen to it. He had started this all, and if he could try to make it right, he couldn't hope to erase all the lies. Or rather, all the things he hadn't said.

"Alright. But just water. I don't want to be inebriated when the cops get there. It wouldn't be very professional."

John smirked a bit at Claire, and moved to the kitchen, fetching two glasses at the same time, one with each hand – perhaps he was enjoying the ambidexterity thing a bit too much, but well, he hadn't realized until the other day that Claire hadn't yet noticed. His wife watched him do, shaking her head, and muttering "mutant".

The tension from the break-in slowly disappeared – the water was cold, the night was silent. John was doing his best for Claire to feel better – silently reeling from the knowledge that soon, too soon, she wouldn't feel that way. Perhaps for a long time.

Of course, it never showed on Tom Kubik's face.

When the police arrived, John took in the two uniformed cops – one a rookie, the other experienced. The best course of action was probably to tell the truth, but keep it clean. Let's not talk about his first suspicions, that it had been more than a burglary, because they'd want to know more.

And while he was confident the greenhorn would buy it all, he knew older cops well enough, for having been one, that he wouldn't risk disguising the truth too much. Some experienced police officers could literally sniff out a lie whenever they were on the job, interviewing people; they might not notice if it wasn't during an interrogation, but now? No point even trying.

No, John wasn't going to let himself be exposed, not because of some stupid college kids, not right after having finished with Keller Industries. He'd be damned if he was burned just two days before the end.

Moreover, if the cops got suspicious of him, they might dig up John Rykes, even if "Rykes"' fingerprints weren't in any databases except the Marshals'. And from there, they could even get back to John Sullivan, if they were tenacious enough to get U.S. Marshal Patterson to open up, which would be... not good.

He didn't actually think it'd come to that, but John wasn't going to risk endangering Claire because another cop busted him. He definitely did not want O'Connor to find out where John Sullivan had disappeared to, and that he was living happily with his wife. WITSEC existed for a reason.

The police took a look around, got the fingerprints on the objects the would-be-burglars had moved, asked them a few questions, and left. It was weird for Claire to be the one interrogated, and even weirder for John not to be the one interrogating, but because they both knew what an investigation was like, they didn't mind all that much.

Once they were alone again, Claire joked that "Tom" knew exactly what to answer to the cops' questions, it almost sounded like he had been robbed dozens of times before.

"Tom" laughed, and John didn't tell her it was because he had asked those questions often enough, during the four years he had been a beat cop.

It wasn't a lie. A lie would have meant he'd said something which wasn't true.

He hadn't said anything.

Claire headed up for their bedroom, and turned back to look at him when she noticed he wasn't following.

"Let's go back to sleep, Tom."

He looked around with a sorry expression. Shards of glass on the floor were the least of his problems, currently, but Claire couldn't know that. They'd be a good enough excuse to stay up a little longer – just the time for him to calm down, to stop thinking about how he was going to tell her the truth, how he was going to have to leave...

"Just a few minutes, Honey. I don't want either of us walking down in the morning and tearing our feet open because we've forgotten about the glass."

"Ten minutes, or I'll fall asleep without you!"

Claire was looking at him, hand on the door knob, as if waiting for confirmation.

John didn't want her to leave – whenever she left, he remembered how this life didn't exist, how it was all a mirage, marching in the desert, and that tomorrow, he'd be out of water.

"Say, Claire..."

"Yes?"

John had no idea what was going through his brain, right now, and the words were out before he could stop them. As if he needed to set a deadline for that, or else, he'd just let the chance go, and wait until it was too late to really explain.

"Tomorrow evening..."

"This evening, you mean? It's two in the morning."

Only one day left. He'd rather she hadn't reminded him, but he guessed he had brought it forward first, hadn't he?

"Yeah, this evening. I... Would you want us to go out, to spend the evening in town? I want to tell you about something. Something important."

He didn't want it to happen here, in this house. John didn't know if Claire would still want him after he told her about "John Rykes" – no way he was telling her all about being in WITSEC, because knowing her, she'd want to know more, she'd look for John Sullivan, and then she'd get the attention of some unsavory characters such as O'Connor – but if she did, if she wanted to wait for him... He didn't want their home to be the place of his avowal. He didn't want Claire to associate the house to his betrayal, even more than she would anyway.

She arched her eyebrows, curious, but took the clue that he wasn't going to say more for now.

"Alright. But you, you finish cleaning up the broken glass, and you get back to our bed. I wouldn't want you falling asleep during our pre-christmas date."

Claire closed the door to the bedroom, and John was alone, again.

Broken shards of glass were the least of his problems.


	4. Nine innocent people

**Chapter 4: Seven innocent people**

It was late in the morning that Detective Leonard McClee, former marine, passed by the desk of the officer writing his report on the Kubik break-in – this kind of unlawful misdemeanor didn't usually ask for much work, the culprits being college students who had thought it would be "fun"; either they found them thanks to the fingerprints, or said fingerprints were catalogued for later use. McClee wasn't particularly surprised to see the officer terribly enthusiastic – stupid college antics and paperwork did that to him too.

Leonard McClee put down a cup of coffee for the officer – he often did that, taking three coffee cups, and giving them to the colleagues who looked like they needed it most – and stopped behind him as he sipped his own drink. The young man gave him a grateful glance, to which Leonard only shrugged – he'd have liked someone to do that for him when he had been at the kid's place.

A photo in the meager file caught his attention, though, and Leonard frowned.

"Who's that?"

The unexpected question had the young officer startled.

"Tom Kubik, the husband. He's the one who was woken up by the burglars, and the one who went down to confront the intruders. Actually, he was more comprehensive at such an early hour than most break-in victims I've seen so far, no matter the hour. It was refreshing..."

Leonard blinked – no, the name wasn't one he recognized, but still... There was something about the picture... Perhaps he had met Tom Kubik one day, but they had never been presented?

No, it wasn't that.

"Can I see?"

"Sure."

The younger cop handed him the picture, and Leonard took it carefully, as if a sudden move would break the memory link in his head.

He was certain he had already seen that man somewhere... More than a decade ago, perhaps, but the man hadn't changed much. Very... normal if you were to describe him, and at the same time handsome, smooth features – yes, Leonard was jealous, and so what? – difficult to describe precisely, no distinct feature except "handsome", and maybe that was why the detective was having such a hard time remembering him.

The officer looked at McClee as the detective squinted aggressively at the picture, head tilted.

"Someone you know?"

The detective gave him a humorless smile, and handed the picture back.

"I'm pretty sure the answer to that question is yes, but I can't seem to remember..."

The older man sighed, said goodbye, good luck, and turned around. He had his own cases to handle, and if he had really met Tom Kubik, it didn't mean he actually knew him. Hell, they lived in the same town – perhaps he had just seen him on the street, one day.

Leonard almost made it to his own desk – almost.

In fact, he was passing by yet another case that wasn't his, with a photo of a marine in uniform on the murder board, when it all came back to him.

The uniform.

Damn.

Leonard McClee swore aloud, to everyone else's surprise, and two seconds later he was back to the officer who was filling the report, the picture of Tom Kubik in his hand, directed so that he saw the uniformed marine just next to it, if somewhat smaller, because further away.

A new string of expletives escaped him – not that he was trying very hard to keep it in.

"McClee! What the hell was that about?!"

The detective lowered the photo in order to see his chief's slightly angry face, but without giving it back to the young officer – who, anyway, was too busy staring at him to actually ask it back.

"A revelation, Chief."

"A 'revelation'?"

The chief didn't look particularly convinced this was enough reason to swear aloud in her police station, but right now, Leonard didn't care.

To prove it, he raised the picture again, and held it firmly under his chief's nose.

"This is not Tom Kubik."

The officer behind him tried to protest, but Leonard was not listening.

"This is a man who's been on the run for fourteen years, after having committed first degree murders in El Salvador. A marine, Sergeant Ron Chapman. And I know that, because I was there too. I mean, not in his unit, but the racket it did? Never going to forget that, Chief. His detachment was sent to look for a rebel in a small village, and before they knew it, the guy had killed nine civilians. Kids, women, old people. I think his superior tried to get him to stop, and he just turned on him. They brought him back to the camp, accused him of murder and assault on a superior... Except two nights later, he was gone."

That had caused even more of a racket at the camp, Leonard recalled, but nothing except a knocked out guard had been found – and then Ron Chapman had never been heard of again.

Until today, it seemed, and if Leonard hadn't seen the photo...

"He didn't change at all, Chief. So unless he's got an unknown twin, or a doppelganger, I'm telling you that Tom Kubik is Ron Chapman."

The chief took the picture, looked at it with a slight grimace.

"He's what, thirty-something? Isn't that a bit young for him to have been a sergeant in the Marine Corps in 1988? And his fingerprints would be in the database, if it really was Ron Chapman. We'd have Feds swarming around already, and perhaps even someone from the military."

Leonard gestured impatiently for the uniformed cop to hand over Tom Kubik's file – well, really, just one sheet of paper with a few details about the man on it.

"There. Tom Kubik, born in 1968; not necessarily true, if it's a fake identity, but we can consider it's close to his real age, by two years at most. He'd have been twenty, twenty one in 88. I don't know when Chapman enlisted exactly, but he could have done so early, like, seventeen years old. And from what I've heard, his... problematic morality aside, he was very good at what he did. And it's not that young, you know."

Leonard put down the file, and looked the chief in the eyes.

"As for his fingerprints... I don't know why they didn't show up as Ron Chapman's, but would it really be the first time we have such an issue? Listen, I'm not asking you to believe me blindly, but we should at least check it out."

The chief sighed, but relented.

"Alright. You do your thing, McClee, but if Kubik turns out to just be a lookalike, which can actually happen... In that case, I don't want to hear anything else about him."

Leonard agreed – no danger for him, he was absolutely certain that Tom Kubik was Ron Chapman.

Ten minutes later, the detective and the uniformed cop were staring, bemused, at the fingerprints recognition software on the police station's computers. No matter the computer they used – they had tried the others, just in case the one they were on wasn't working correctly – Tom Kubik's and Ron Chapman's fingerprints showed as a negative match.

Yet, when Leonard looked at the two magnified prints, he could only see the same pattern.

"Say, Kiddo, you're seeing the same thing as I am, aren't you?"

The officer nodded strongly, at a loss for words.

"What are the odds that two individuals share the same face, and nearly identical fingerprints, that the software can tell them apart, but we can't?"

"Not sure, Detective, but very low, I'd say."

The detective and the uniformed officer looked at each other, sure, this time, that something fishy was going on – on top of the double identity thing.

They brought their conclusion to the chief, who, this time, didn't argue with them, and called the FBI in San Francisco about this rather unexpected turn in the investigation. The Bureau was better suited to take a look into Kubik's past, to see if anything stuck out as fake, and anyway, it would be their arrest to make.

Which was exactly what happened, the very evening – Leonard McClee had insisted to be present, and since he had been the one to recognize the fugitive, since he had met Ron Chapman before, no one told him to stay away.

It was weird to see Ron Chapman again – they hadn't ever really talked, of course, back when they were both marines, but Leonard remembered sharing a meal or two with the young man. He remembered the look on the man's face, when he had been brought back to the camp, hands tied – flittering between unrepentant and uncomprehending, as if whatever had happened in the mountains wasn't, couldn't be real. There hadn't been any doubts, at the time, that Ron Chapman was guilty...

And yet, Leonard remembered thinking there was something unnatural in the way things were going. Not that he thought Chapman innocent – he hadn't been there to witness the acts, but the testimonies were damning – still, even back then, Leonard had thought something didn't add up.

Hernandez, Chapman's superior, had been too eager to get rid of the problem, for one.

Nevertheless, Detective Leonard McClee held no doubts about Chapman's role in the tragedy. He had seen it in the man's eyes, back then – hadn't been able to determine if it was guilt or defiance, if Chapman had snapped or if he was a cold-hearted killer – but he knew for a fact that, whatever the reasons and the circumstances, Sergeant Ron Chapman had killed those nine civilians.

He had seen it in the man's eyes.

It was weird to see Tom Kubik lovingly walking down the street with his wife, happy, smiling at a baby – when he knew for a fact that Tom Kubik was Ron Chapman.

The arrest in itself almost went south, and Leonard could tell, even before the exploding piece of crap which had almost gotten someone killed, that their target had made them. Still, nothing major happened – though Chapman looked really angry at how the Feds treated his wife during the arrest.

It all made Leonard realize that whoever Tom Kubik really was, he had a life, now – and Leonard had just broken it into pieces.

But it was a murderer sitting there, before him and the FBI agent on the case, he reminded himself as they later entered the interogation room at the FBI office. A man who had killed nine innocent people back then, during their stay in El Salavador with the Marine Corps.

Tom Kubik, though... Tom Kubik looked slightly distressed, even if aware of the reason he was here. Well, at least, that confirmed his real identity.

Leonard, being a guest here, let the FBI agent begin.

"Well, Mister Kubik, this is one headache you've given us here. Or should I say, Sergeant Chapman? The Marine Corps have an interesting file on you, you know?"

Someone from the military would get there in the morning, and tomorrow afternoon Chapman would be sent to a military jail to await trial. Meanwhile, the FBI, and the detective by extension, were welcome to try and get anything out of him – except the confidential stuff, as always.

Oddly enough, the words seemed to calm Chapman. Not entirely, or even, maybe not at all, but Leonard had the feeling that something had changed in the man's tenseness.

Knowing for sure what they knew, the detective guessed; Chapman was aware that he was in a tight spot – hell, he might even face death penalty for what he had done – but knowing how exactly... It was different. The man now knew what to be careful about.

Not that he was talking.

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Agent Mullins, and this is Detective Leonard..."

"McClee, I know. We served together."

Mullins arched his eyebrows. High.

"Exactly, Sergeant. He's actually the one who recognized you, and it's thanks to his input that we were able to notice an oddity with 'Ron Chapman''s fingerprints in the database. You know, the reason 'Tom Kubik' doesn't match with your fingerprints?"

Chapman didn't answer, and only stared.

Mullins didn't seem all that fazed by the lack of reaction.

"Apparently the marine file with your fingerprints on it had an issue – we found another image, too clear to the naked eye, underneath the prints, which made them unreadable, or should I say, Sergeant, 'different' from your actual fingerprints. Any idea how that happened?"

Still no answer.

But not silence.

"I know the drill, Agent Mullins, and I won't tell you a thing. So, do yourself a favor: don't bother."


	5. Anything necessary

**Chapter 5: Anything necessary**

The door creaked lightly, and John looked up, ready – but weary nonetheless – for yet another round. He knew the drill, after all. Interrogations... He had already been on both sides of the table. He knew the old tricks. And moreover, while the FBI knew about "Ron Chapman", now, they still didn't know much.

He wasn't Ron Chapman, not anymore, and certainly hadn't been to begin with.

As long as they didn't become aware that he had other identities too, more... official... ones, John could deal with whatever was going to happen.

Except there would still be at least two people who could now link him – his official, if not original, identity, John Rykes – and Ron Chapman, on top of Tom Kubik, and that... That might not be good, he couldn't help to think when his eyes landed on Quaggia closing the door behind him.

How the man had gotten himself into the federal building, John didn't know, but apparently Mario Quaggia had somehow managed to get here, and that was what mattered.

If John was lucky, and no one barged in while the former Green Beret was inside the interrogation room... Perhaps he'd get to explain, before the commandant decided to just let him deal with his own shit. Worse, before Jarosz told the feds everything about John Rykes, which would lead U.S. Marshal Patterson to tell the FBI and the Army about John Sullivan, which would mean that Frank would know about Ron Chapman...

Quaggia stopped the video recording of the interrogation room, and took a seat before John.

There was a moment of silence, during which the older man simply looked at him. John fell back into the world-weary position of I'm-hiding-my-mouth-behind-my-crossed-arms, tired...

Then, finally:

"Well, boy, I must say I hadn't seen that one coming."

John didn't bother sitting straight, but he did give a no-shit-sherlock look at the former soldier. Had he cared about his future just a bit more, perhaps he wouldn't have done that, but currently he couldn't care less. He had believed his situation had been the worst – of his own doing, yes, but still the worse – only a few hours before, but now? Now, he knew his situation was even more terrible, and could get yet worse – and that, of his own doing too.

"It's like all my various lives are getting back at me..."

Or not, but he couldn't say that to Quaggia. This... This was just 'Ron Chapman' getting back at him. Only one name. Only one of his lives. If all his lives had been part of the problem already, the situation would be much, much worse.

Though, of all the lives to hit him in the face, Ron Chapman certainly was the worse to present to Claire. John Rykes would have been bad enough, with the lies and the half-truths, and John Sullivan would have brought his own issues, sure, but Ron Chapman... Ron Chapman was considered a murderer, a war criminal. Claire wasn't ever going to accept him back, now...

Quaggia leaned over the table a bit, and whispered – but there was an angry, or perhaps disappointed tone in his words.

"Now, Rykes, I sure hope you have a good explanation for this absolute bag of shit, because Jarosz isn't going to be pleased, and I don't particularly want to be disappointed with myself for having read you wrong! You want help out of this shit-hole? Spill!"

John kept quiet for a few seconds, before sighing and sitting upright again – but there was still a dangerous slump in his shoulders, in his determination.

"I... Well. To begin with, what do you know?"

Quaggia rolled his eyes, and gestured mildly at the interrogation room, at the fake mirror / window, behind which Agent Mullins and Detective McClee could have been watching. It was obvious they weren't there, of course, because they wouldn't let Quaggia in to speak with "Ron Chapman".

Unless Quaggia was masquerading to be his lawyer.

"What do you think, boy? That I'm all chummy with the feds, and they told me everything about your case? All I know, is that they want you for several unwarranted kills in El Salavador in 1988, when, apparently, you were a Marine. Which, by the way, has me a bit surprised, but eitherway. Considering 'Tom Kubik''s slightly unconventional identity, and the fact that Jarosz told me you were in WITSEC, however that is supposed to work with you being a Green Beret, I figured I should at least listen to your version of the story."

John winced a bit, but guessed he didn't really have a choice.

It hadn't even been granted that Quaggia would want to listen to him, instead of waiting for the official report. So John wasn't going to be ungrateful, not when there was one person to whom he could tell the story, and that person was Mario Quaggia.

"I... It doesn't have anything to do with WITSEC, but I guess you could say that Ron Chapman disappeared for comparable reasons; because if I hadn't deserted in 1988, I'm not sure anyone would have believed me, and even if they had, I'm not sure they'd have been willing to deal with it the right way."

It wasn't that John held little faith in investigation work – quite the contrary, in fact, or he wouldn't have gone and gotten himself in the police after the Ron Chapman Fiasco. It was more that he knew how the military worked, and his case had been peculiar, in spite of the accusation against a superior that he could have gone with. These cases rarely ended well.

He smiled wrily at Quaggia, remembering – living the memories again – for the sake of his current situation.

"1988, El Salvador. We're sent to search for a fugitive rebel in Las Calinas. At the end of the search I end up killing nine civilians, braging, almost, as I interrogate them. That's what the military accuses me of, and, I guess, factually they're right. The report isn't anywhere near complete, that much is clear, but it's still the truth... missing the important parts of the story."

"Wait, so you're telling me you did it?"

John didn't answer right away, just staring at the former Green Beret, who couldn't seem to believe what he was hearing – and, John surmised, it was understandable, since for now, it simply sounded as if he was a cold-blooded murderer.

Still, the younger man snorted.

Derision, at this point, was probably the only thing driving him.

"I did it. Except, the report forgets to say why I did it, who ordered me to do it, and how I ended up doing that of all things. The report doesn't say a word about the actual orders I got from Major James Hernandez, and, instead, it does point out how Hernandez couldn't believe I had done that!"

John didn't bring his fist down on the table, not with the racket it would cause, but it was only because he didn't want someone from the FBI to be alerted by the noise, to come and check on the prisoner... and to notice he wasn't alone.

Yes, John really wanted to punch the table, at this point – but he wouldn't.

"The report doesn't say a word about Hernandez's responsibility in the whole story, of course."

Quaggia frowned, listening intently to the disgust in the younger man's voice, how it rang true – though, John Rykes was more than able to fake it, the former soldier surmised. Still, the bitterness in there, the anger... Quaggia didn't know at what exactly it was aimed, but it sure as hell was real.

"What doesn't the report say, Ryk..."

The former soldier stopped for a moment, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes.

"Or is it Chapman?"

John shrugged, as his mouth broke into a wince of a smirk – derisive.

"Ron Chapman isn't my real name either. I... I was seventeen when my foster mother died. Car accident. After my mother's death four years prior, my father's death when I was eight... I didn't react well. Someone owed me, so I got them to make me a fake identity good enough to enlist, and I left New York. I became a Marine."

"You were already going by an alias at seventeen?"

"What can I say? I'm good at this game, and no one would have looked for me in the military. I was in James Hernandez's unit, and I was doing good. Only, after the first time I killed on duty... I took it too well, and it scared me. Got me nervous. Less efficient."

Quaggia frowned at the explanation; Rykes didn't seem like the kind of guy who had an issue with killing, as long as it was justified, necessary. From what Jarosz had told him, it really wasn't a problem for the man. He didn't enjoy it, but he wasn't needlessly remorseful either.

...Then again, the young man wasn't complaining about being afraid of killing, but being afraid of himself. Which, in a way, was reassuring. Psychopaths didn't have that moral problem.

John continued, looking at nothing in particular, as he recalled the four years in his life he had been Ron Chapman.

"I'm pretty sure Hernandez didn't have a hidden agenda, back then, that he was only trying to help me, but when it all went south... Unsurprisingly, he shut his mouth and let me to take the fall, instead of, at least, explaining to them why it had happened."

After all, Hernandez hadn't been the one to pull the trigger – Ron had been. It was easy, for him, to pretend he had nothing to do with the slaughtered villagers. It was easier to think Ron Chapman was responsible for everything.

Only, John knew better. He loathed himself for having let it happen, but he wasn't going to forget that the blame was not only his.

"It started in 1987. Hernandez came to me, worried. I was becoming reckless, taking high risks to kill less and save more, even when it was obvious the action was too dangerous. I wasn't... I wasn't endangering anyone else, but he thought I was becoming self-sacrificial. Which was true, of course, but I didn't see the issue."

Quaggia wasn't certain that Rykes had come to see the issue with that attitude, even now, but he guessed it wasn't the moment to discuss that particular point.

"He forced me to see a medic, and I was given a prescription. Not much, you know, just one pill a day. And I have to admit, it calmed me down."

Quaggia could guess what followed, it was visible on his face.

"But that wasn't the only effect."

John shook his head, the winced smile still there as if in testimony.

"But that wasn't the only effect. I was... more compliant, I guess, to the orders, and Hernandez noticed, but didn't say a thing. It wasn't that terrible, right? Except it was, and it ended badly in El Salvador. I was more accomodating, and I was losing the notion of right and wrong as a result. Only my orders remained. My orders were obviously right, and I had to do anything necessary to obey. Because it was the right thing to do, you see?"

Quaggia winced too – he knew that feeling, only, the other way around. The moment when you start thinking about the orders you were given... Never a good thing. Except, from what Rykes was telling him, the younger man didn't only stop thinking about the rightness of his orders, he also went farther than that. He had stopped thinking about the value of an order – what "doing anything necessary" really meant.

"Anything" wasn't the right word, and normally, anyone who had served could tell that. There was always a limit between what you could, and what you should do to finish your task.

"I, of course, hadn't noticed a thing, since I was the one taking the medicine. So when Hernandez told me to interrogate the villagers while the others searched Las Colinas, when he told me we absolutely had to find the rebel... That's what I did."

John was back to looking Quaggia in the eyes – searching for understanding, perhaps. Guarded, still, because he had already been told once that whatever he had to say, it didn't matter. That he was making it up, that it was his word against Major James Hernandez's – that Hernandez's word weighted more than his.

That in the end, he had been the one to pull the trigger nine times.

"I had been ordered to find the rebel, Quaggia, and there was no way I wasn't going to obey Hernandez's order. At the time, it seemed like I was doing what I had to do, not that I even stopped one moment to wonder about what it seemed like. So yes, I killed them, because I was in no state to do anything else. And Hernandez knew it, but he didn't say a word."

John laughed coldly, looking away from the former Green Beret at the same time.

"And you know the best part? The rebel wasn't even in the village."

Quaggia took a moment to think – he really, really had to go, before someone came to check on their suspect, but this was...

"I'll look into your story, Rykes, and if you're saying the truth, Jarosz will come up with something. You're lucky he has been looking for dirt on Bill Marks, Hernandez's superior, for a long time."


	6. A concerned nuance

_By the way... Did I tell you I'm French? If not, well, now I did. So... not perfect English, but it's to be expected._

 _Also, I realized that one of the songs I currently listen to while writing is oddly fitting for John, whenever he has a serious relationship with a woman ( except Joss, but I still disagree with canon on that point, so I don't even think about it )... Well, not exactly, but good enough. And especially in this story..._  
 _I think it at least gives a feeling, if not the exact description, of what John thinks whenever he's with Claire. What brought him to marry her into a "fit of insanity", kind of. How he just... forgets who he's supposed to be._  
 _It's in French, but you can find the approximate translation of the lyrics even on Youtube ( here, for example: https_:_/_/_www_._youtube_._com_/_watch_?_v=f8m5BySoY9E )_  
 _Le Géant de papier, Jean-Jacques Lafon, 1987_

* * *

 **Chapter 6: A concerned nuance**

John almost snorted at himself, as the door to his cell in San Lazaro's Marine Corps base opened. Here he was again. In military custody, for a crime that wasn't only his, that he shouldn't be accused of.

Except this time, he had made it back to the USA. Last time he had just made his way out of his holding cell while still at the camp, knocking out a guard on his way out. Then it had all been a matter of leaving El Salvador and getting back to the USA before someone caught him. Normally he'd have laid low for a time, and then gotten out of the country, but he was whiter than white in a country of tan people. No point in even trying.

After that, he had gotten back to his true life, to his brother, to New York. He had tried to wash off the blood from his hands – not the blood from his legitimate kills as a soldier, but the blood he shouldn't have had on his hands to begin with – by becoming a police officer, like Frank. He had become John Sullivan again.

But here he was, again.

Looking back, none of his long-standing identities, original or fabricated, had ever went well. John Sullivan had disappeared into WITSEC; Ron Chapman had fled after having been used and discarded; Tom Kubik was going to be judged before disappearing. Only John Rykes was safe, for now – but with his history...

Perhaps he didn't deserve happiness.

He didn't even bother to look up at the person who now stood at his opened door.

"Chapman. Your lawyer is here."

At first, John didn't move. He had to play the role of a heart-broken man, right now – easy; he was one. Someone who doesn't really know what to do from there on. It was the most logical thing to do, considering that Quaggia had yet to contact him on how they were going to play it.

If the former Green Beret even contacted him to begin with. For all he knew, Commandant Jarosz had decided that getting dirt on Marks and saving a poor soldier who had been unfortunate enough to get himself in this situation was just too much trouble.

Or, worse, perhaps Quaggia hadn't bought his story.

It wasn't as if John had done a shitty job at covering his tracks, before becoming Ron Chapman, and after having abandoned the identity. Checking his claims might be a bit difficult.

"Chapman."

John sighed, and rose from his cell bed.

"Coming..."

Be disheartened.

Easy.

He was led to a parlor, all complete with the glass pane separating him from his new lawyer – in his underwear, more or less. An impersonal T-shirt, and something that uneasily mixed short pants and underpants. Right. He had never minded the military standard clothing, but right now... he could really do with actual pants and a pair of shoes.

John knew the military prison couldn't afford to let their prisoners anything to harm themselves with – or to harm someone else with. Everyone in here was efficient enough in combat, after all. Some more than others, obviously – read, him, even if they had no idea up to what point. But the official reason was anti-suicide rules. If he wanted some actual clothes, someone would have to ask for it formally, and sign the demand. Just in case, you know – to have someone to blame if anything happened.

He didn't think he passed off as the suicidal kind, but who knew? Perhaps they hadn't liked the way he had looked at his new... clothes... in appraisal at his arrival – John had to admit he had considered suicide, even if only as a possible way to "end" Ron Chapman when the time came.

So here he was, in his underwear and without shoes. He'd ask if they were headed to a pajama party... That is, if he could afford to look blasé and sarcastic, which wasn't the case. For now, he was the depressed man accused unfairly. Not the bored sociopath who didn't give a damn.

John took in the appearance of his lawyer without a word. Military, obviously. First Lieutenant. Young. Inexperienced with this kind of stuff, obviously, but he wouldn't bet the kid didn't have experience in other things. Something seemed off...

To John only, though. No one else seemed to notice. Perhaps he was imagining things.

It wouldn't be surprising if the whole ordeal was making him paranoid.

John sat, and took the phone after a moment of deliberate hesitation.

The lawyer did as much, only, without the hesitation.

"Honored to meet you. Sergeant Ron Chapman, is it? I'm First Lieutenant Terrence Embry. I've been given your case to take care of. Anything you'd wish to say beforehand?"

John slowly blinked – disheartened, John... no, Ron. Depressed, Ron.

The kid really sounded self-confident and cheerful at first, or, at least, as cheerful as such circumstances could allow, but there was something in his voice... Something that told him immediately it was all for show. It could simply be that Embry didn't really believe in his case – not that John had said anything yet, but still... But there was something else too.

Playing his part, John looked away.

"...Just don't bother..."

The young man didn't say anything for a moment, just looking at the older marine – watching. His eyes narrowed, and Terrence Embry passed off a quick scouting of the visiting room as him stretching. Then, once he was certain no one had snuck in and was eavesdropping, the lieutenant leaned closed to the glass pane, his side of the phone stuck against his face.

John frowned, uncertain of what was going on here.

"Your military record is impressive, Sergeant Rykes, I must say."

John refrained from throwing the phone away and taking two steps back. Instead, only the right side of his mouth tilted – which he could have stopped too, but the only explanation here...

Actually, there were two possible explanations: either Terrence Embry had found out about his... wait, was it third? – identity and this was going to get even worse, or the first lieutenant was one of Jarosz's or Quaggia's contacts.

The odds that someone had just stumbled onto "John Rykes" were very, very low.

John decided to go with the second explanation.

"Sergeant Chapman, First Lieutenant. Here and now, my name is Ron Chapman... or Tom Kubik. I don't have a preference. But it isn't John Rykes."

Not here, not now, at least.

The younger man only smiled, and relaxed in his seat, leaning back.

"As you wish... Mr Kubik. But I was sincere. Infantry, Rangers, and now Green Berets. And, even if it doesn't appear in 'Rykes''s file, Marines Corps too. How much time does that cover? Only twelve years?"

"Thirteen years next month."

Embry nodded slowly, thinking.

"Thirteen years of service, and this is where you end up... Except your current superior still wants you to go back to Afghanistan, as soon as 'John Rykes''s health problems will be taken care of. Commandant Jarosz never liked Bill Marks, as it is, and he's eager to find out how right he was not to. If we can dig out even one proof... Well, let's say that your commandant would feel better with an incentive for Brigadier General Marks to behave."

John raised an eyebrow, wondering mildly what exactly had happened between the two officers for Commandant Jarosz to be so set on proving Bill Marks' rather... questionable methods. Not that he was going to complain, mind you. Withouth that detemination, U.S. Marshal Patterson might have already stormed the base searching for John Rykes, and then it would turn into a terrible battle to know who handled what.

"If so... What's the plan?"

Terrence Embry closed his eyes for a moment.

"Tell them the exact story, only, keep Marks out of it for now. While they'll be focused on whether or not Mayor Hernandez is the true villain of the story, Quaggia will investigate Marks and see if there's more to find. Bringing down his right-hand man will be a victory, of course, but if we can prove that the Brigadier General was on it too..."

"...Jarosz will be overjoyed."

Embry shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. The young man didn't particularly like all the power play between the higher-ups, and had it been only about that, he wouldn't have accepted Mario Quaggia's deal. But he also didn't want to see a high-ranking officer with no qualms about sacrificing their men if that kept them from a scandal. Dying as a soldier on the battlefield was one thing, but getting thrown under a bus was another.

If Rykes was telling the truth about Hernandez – hell, about Marks too, perhaps – then Embry wasn't going to let him be executed for something he couldn't have helped. For something James Hernandez could have stopped, but hadn't.

Rykes – still playing a man who had given up, but Embry could guess that it wasn't completely a mask – put one hand over his face, and whispered in the phone.

"What about my getting out of here?"

A legitimate question, of course – and the younger soldier had the feeling that John Rykes wasn't only talking about the jail.

More like, about Tom Kubik.

Embry wasn't sure what the man's feelings were on that point. He also wasn't sure that the man himself knew what his own feelings were on the subject. After all, the man wasn't Tom Kubik or Ron Chapman, but John Rykes – that too, was dubious, but also a question for later. Going back to John Rykes was probably what he wanted...

But letting Claire Kubik behind was another problem altogether.

"If we win the trial, you'll do it however you want. Tell your wife or fake your death, your choice. If we lose... Well, it seems that Ron Chapman will kill himself a few days after the verdict. Apparently Quaggia knows someone at the morgue."

Go figure. Quaggia apparently knew people everwhere.

John's free hand went for his throat without his consent, and constricted lightly around his neck. Not enough to hurt, but just enough for it to feel just as he thought he was supposed to feel right now. Like he could hardly breathe.

The voice on the phone brought him back to the visiting room. There was a concerned nuance in it.

"Sergeant?"

His hand fell back, his eyes focused again on the first lieutenant, and John gave the younger man a bitter smile.

"Claire might have forgiven me for not having said a word about 'Rykes' sooner, but with 'Chapman' in the game too... perhaps I should just go with the fake suicide."

Terrence Embry didn't have anything to say to that, even if his face clearly said he'd have wanted to disagree. John simply shook his head, and dismissed the matter.

For now.

"I'll see you again, Embry."

And he moved to leave the visiting room...

But the younger man wasn't finished, and John didn't hang up the phone. Curiosity, perhaps.

"Wait! Only one more question!"

He thought about it for a second, and shrugged.

"Go on. But I might not answer."

The lawyer made a face, checked his surroundings one more time, and whispered in the phone.

"I've seen your military files, Mr Kubik. Both of them. And I couldn't help but ask Quaggia about the... cleanliness of your years before enlisting in the infantry. It looks perfect, but... It's boring. And people like you don't do boring. So where... So, who were you during the five years between the Marines and the infantry?"

John smirked a bit at that one, and decided to say the thruth – a cryptic truth, but the truth nonetheless. It wasn't as if Embry would believe him, anyway. And even if he did... To whom would he say it without proof?

"I put people into places like this one, First Lieutenant."

And on these words, John left the visiting room – back to his cell.


	7. The one to go down

_Some of the movie's lines here, obviously_

* * *

 **Chapter 7: The one to go down**

"Ron. Tom. Whatever your name is."

John looked at his wife, on the other side of the glass panel, as she said these words. "John", he wanted to whisper, but he knew he couldn't. To Claire, he could only be Ron Chapman or Tom Kubik. Never John.

Not now that it had all gone down this way. Perhaps if things had happened differently...

But they hadn't, and he'd have to accept it.

He hadn't lied to her, not really. Upon arriving in the visiting room, Claire had asked him if "Ron Chapman" was his name, and it was. Not the first one, true, but the name was his, not anyone else's. John hadn't ever stolen someone else's name and identity. Ronald Chapman had been made up from scratch, and the name was his. There wasn't another Ron Chapman running around, oblivious to the fact that someone had stolen his identity. Besides, people made such a fuss about names, as if they weren't the ones calling others that... You don't need a name when you're alone.

If she had asked him whether or not "Ron Chapman" was his real name, that would have been another story. John wouldn't have been able to tell her "yes" without lying.

He'd still have done it.

But he was glad he hadn't had to – though she would probably not see it this way, were she aware of what he wasn't telling her.

He could still tell her the truth about Ron Chapman's time in the Marine Corps. He should.

"I do love you. But I did not do this. Okay? I swear I never did this. I didn't want to tell you. It's that I don't want you to leave me."

It was all true – to a point.

John did love her, and yes, it was the reason he had kept his mouth shut, even after it had started becoming serious between them. And though he had done what they accused him of, he had never done it the way they said he had, or for the reasons they said he had. In a way, you could say he hadn't been the one to kill these nine civilians; James Hernandez was. Because James Hernandez had known he was drifting, when John hadn't even realized, and he hadn't done a thing. And he had still given the order.

Perhaps the man hadn't meant for any of it to happen.

But he was at least as guilty as John himself was.

And John was going to tell Claire all about it. Maybe she could forgive him for keeping the secet this time – and perhaps, if she did, she could also... But no. He knew very well that she wouldn't accept a second time. His reasons might be good, his reasoning, sensible, yet it didn't change the fact that she'd feel betrayed, the day he would tell her the whole truth.

But he would nonetheless. Because he had to.

Even if it cost him everything – again. It wasn't as if it'd be the first time.

John could see Claire's hesitance in her eyes as she asked him what had really happened, all these years ago, in El Salvador. He wanted to take her hand, squeeze it, and tell her it wasn't what she thought – but he couldn't.

He also wanted to tell her she didn't have to worry, that it didn't matter – but he wouldn't.

She wouldn't believe him, either. And he had promised himself, months ago – right after their wedding in Las Vegas, right after the moment of insanity that might destroy her life – he had promised himself that he wouldn't ever outright lie to her, even if he would keep some of the truth to himself for a time.

And this? This would have been a lie. An useless lie, at that. They both knew it did matter.

John caught sight of Embry behind the door to the visiting room. He hesitated a moment, not too willing to let go of Claire – but it wasn't as if he could even hold her hand, was it?

John told her, and watched her as she went to speak with the first lieutenant. He watched them, as he could, by the small panel of glass in the door. Embry was doing a good job of looking a mix of confident and flustered – he probably was, too, but John knew the younger man was also keeping things from Claire. Or at least, he hoped Embry was keeping things from Claire, because he didn't want to have to explain right now why he had forgotten to mention he wasn't only Tom Kubik and Ron Chapman, not just after this conversation.

It was something he had to tell her himself.

John had known, the very moment she had replied to him for the first at the park so long ago, that it could only end in drama... But he hadn't wanted to believe it.

He guessed that once again, he had been trying to be someone, anyone, instead of the composite of names he had become. Aliases, WITSEC, undercover... He had probably done them all by now, but who was he supposed to be? Just John...? Or Tom, for now.

Yet it hadn't been possible. Tom was getting crushed under Ron, and while he'd find a way to get the two names to live together, he also knew that it wouldn't balance out until he added John to the mix. Be one of them, or be all of them. It wouldn't work halfway.

Except he couldn't be officially John right now, not with the surveillance or with the upcoming trial.

Just thinking that Claire was out there, in San Lazaro, as he was unable to protect her from whatever she'd be told about him... He couldn't even begin to imagine what would happen to her if word got out that Ron Chapman too had only been an alias. They would use it against him, obviously, but what if they also turned against her? What if...

San Lazaro.

John's blood ran cold, as he realized who else was here too.

James Hernandez. The man hadn't come to see him since he had been transferred in the military prison, but John knew he was still assigned to this base. For all he knew, Claire had even met him...

Fourteen years, and John had no idea who the man had become, but he certainly remembered how Hernandez had been, all these years ago. Ready to throw him under a bus, if only to save his own skin. When John would say the truth of what had happened... When he'd accuse Hernandez... Who knew to what lengths the major would go to make him shut up?

Who knew if Claire wouldn't be targeted to have him change his statement?

John bit his lower lip, almost drawing blood.

Then Claire walked back in, followed by Terrence Embry, and said the words that changed it all.

"I'm going to defend you."

John didn't let anything show, except mild worry – just like he was supposed to feel, since, you know, he loved her and didn't want her involved, but not the real distress he was feeling, deep down, thinking about what could happen to her because of these words. Claire had no idea of what she was getting herself into.

She had already been a target before, but if she went through with that statement...

Something freezing got a hold of his stomach, and John suddenly changed his mind. Perhaps it was, yet again, the erratic behavior that only Claire's presence could make happen, and that he couldn't stop, no matter how guilty he felt afterwards. Perhaps not. But what he knew, right now, was that he couldn't let her hear the real version of the events in El Salvador. He had to make her think...

But that was lying.

No. That was keeping her alive. If he lied, Hernandez would be too busy wondering why he wasn't going with the full story, even if it was hardly believable, when his lies were even less plausible. Maybe there would be some attempts against Claire, but Embry would be there to keep an eye on her. And the story would end, if John managed to get there, in a good enough way no matter what.

Either he'd be condemned, and Claire wouldn't be a target anymore after that, or he'd be freed, and Hernandez would be the one in jail, at least, which meant that the major wouldn't be able to go after Claire for revenge. Whereas, if John told the truth, the most Hernandez risked was a few months, perhaps, and then he'd be out and able to hurt them, again.

One of them had to get put down, for Claire to be safe. Either James Hernandez or Ron Chapman.

John didn't care if the odds were in favor of the major, he didn't care if he was ultimately the one to go down, not if it meant that Claire would be safe. It wasn't as if he'd really die, even if Ron Chapman was sentenced to death, anyway, and he had already left so many people behind, for their own good... Jessica, Frank... What would one more person be?

They could start their lives back, these people he cared about, even if he wasn't there for them anymore. But if they died because he stayed...

John'd lie to Claire, if it was to keep her alive.

So he started telling her – but he didn't tell her the whole truth. The incident at the cafe, yes. The rebels, yes. The mission in Las Calinas, yes.

Embry played the game, pretending they hadn't talked about it yet. Not completely, at least.

Then John changed a few things, and Embry really started to look at him oddly, as if he wanted to say something, to intervene, to demand an explanation, but wouldn't, because that'd let the cat out of the bag. Because that'd be saying he knew there was more to the story, and Claire would want to know what it was about.

John ignored him, and went on. Who cared if he changed a few things, if it was to protect Claire?

"Somebody lost it. I heard gunfire. By the time I got there, people were slaughtered."

Not him, but Hernandez. Tell them it's Hernandez who did it. That's a lie, and John knew it, but he didn't care. Hernandez could defend himself, he wasn't going to do it for him. And, if he handled it right, the only way Hernandez could get himself out of this accusation, was to say the truth. To admit to a lesser guilt, to get himself out of a worse accusation.

Who cared if John might get in trouble for having lied under oath, if it got Hernandez to admit what he had done? Who cared if Ron Chapman had to pay the price of he game he had just decided to play? Claire wouldn't forgive him for the outright lie... But she wouldn't have forgiven him eitherway, not once she'd known he still had secrets.

John Rykes needed out, and this was the way.

He only hoped he would be able to keep that reasoning in mind all along, that he wouldn't falter and try to change the outcome because he still hoped for a happy ending.

John never got happy endings. He should know it by now.

The best he could do, now, was to make sure Claire got out of it safely.

It was, he realized, all he could do for her now.

He finished his story, and Embry asked him for the real culprit's name. The kid was probbing, to make sure John wouldn't back down, or to let him another chance to come clean, to say the truth, John didn't know. It didn't matter. He had made a decision, and he would stick by it.

"Hernandez. Jimmy Hernandez."

The face Embry made... It wasn't only that he didn't believe him – that was a given, considering John himself had told him the exact, true story, and Quaggia had probably investigated enough to back this one up. No, Terrence Embry knew better than to believe that... What he didn't know, was why John Rykes was suddenly making it up, even after they had agreed about what to say. It wasn't that he didn't believe him, but that he couldn't believe it.

Embry made his disbelief known, even if he passed it off as something else for Claire's benefit.

John played dumb, and just confirmed that yes, he was accusing James Hernandez.

Then Claire said she had just seen him in the waiting area, that he had introduced himself to her...

John had a difficult time not to react violently, but he kept his calm. He could see Hernandez, all sorry smile and kind words, even when he was the reason Claire Kubik's husband was in jail, even as he had made it all happen with his damned medicine! He had no trouble imagining him, saying how Ron was a good marine, once upon a time. Playing the empathy card.

Only to stab him in the back more efficiently at the trial.

If John let him have his way, Hernandez would certainly say to everyone who cared to listen that no, he didn't think Ron Chapman was fundamentally bad, but that he had snapped back then, and that despite the fact that he was a good guy, he had to pay for his crimes.

As if he wasn't just condemning him to the death penalty by doing that.

"Claire, I want you to listen to me. I want you to stay away from him. He is extremely dangerous, do you understand?"

Not more dangerous than John himself, that's for sure, but dangerous enough to get her killed. And there wasn't anything John could do that would ensure her immediate safety, not from his jail cell.

John looked Terrence Embry in the eyes as the younger man summarized his line of defence, seemingly incredulous. In these eyes he saw a promise, that he'd have to explain himself shortly after, when they'd be alone.

John looked back with a promise of his own for Embry to uphold: to protect Claire from Hernandez.


	8. The best decision

**Chapter 8: The best decision**

Embry had come to see him right away, to tell him the news. Claire was still busy with the police, after a time spent at the hospital, to make sure that neither she nor her sister had been seriously wounded by the intruder. She'd come as soon as she could.

John leaned toward the first lieutenant, his voice but a whisper.

Embry recoiled instinctively, despite the glass panel between them.

"He said what?"

The younger man took a moment to gain back his composure before answering.

"The man who broke into your wife's house... It was probably one of the villagers present during the attack. He told her you did it, that you were guilty, and hit her before leaving."

John's grip on the phone hardened. Embry noticed.

"He was still there when I arrived, and took off as soon as he realized the sisters weren't alone anymore. I don't think he actually wanted to harm them..."

"Oh, he didn't, did he? It's not like he hit Claire and threatened her with a gun, is it?"

John's voice was nothing more than a hiss, at that point. Embry's upper lip twitched.

"...as I said, both Claire and her sister are alive. You are the one he wanted. He's hurting you through your wife, since he cannot get to you."

"Thank you very much for that deep analysis of the situation, First Lieutenant. Now, let me resume what has been accomplished so far: Claire tried to convince me to take a deal, five years, which would have allowed me to disappear the time to finish my tour without having to tell her I lied since the beginning, which I refused, not because I am innocent, but because I don't want to keep it a secret forver, then she got assaulted at her place by a man who knows what I did, but for obvious reasons who cannot know the truth of the matter. Now you are telling me that it could have been worse...?"

Embry didn't answer, lips shut tight together, as if he deeply wanted to say something, but knew it wouldn't help, like, at all, given John's current mood.

Or perhaps he simply had nothing to say, even if he really wanted to defend himself.

John couldn't care less, at that point.

"Listen well, First Lieutenant Terrence Embry, because if anything happens to Claire, I will walk out of here and start a carnage, which will do neither of us any good, but I don't freaking care right now. You are going to call Quaggia, and Quaggia is going to find this man who broke into my wife's house and threatened her. He will make sure he is really a Salvadoran, and not someone paid by Hernandez to destroy Claire's faith in me, and he will not let him out of his sight after that. Jarosz wants something incriminating against Marks? Very well. Investigate. You, as my lawyer, and not Quaggia. Quaggia will be busy making sure nothing happens to Claire."

The younger man gulped – he wasn't sure how exactly Rykes was doing it, but he was scaring the shit out of him, and that was all that mattered. He didn't even have any doubts that, should John Rykes want it to happen, the man could just walk out of the prison, one way or another. Someone would probably get threatened with their life, and there would definitely be a few wounded, but Rykes would manage, given the proper incentive.

It was now Embry's job to keep said incentive from happening.

He didn't, he really didn't want to have to clear up the mess which would happen if Claire Kubik was badly hurt and John Rykes lost it, throwing caution to the wind.

"I'll... I'll do just that. Now, if you'll excuse me, but your wife is on her way, and I need to call Quaggia to... to make sure this doesn't happen again. And of course, we didn't see each other today. Not yet, at least."

Embry tried to catch John's eyes, to make sure they were on the same page on this point. They needed to keep up the pretense, that nothing would get in the way of the plan John had come up with when Claire had come to visit him the first time. It was, after all, John Rykes' plan, and not the one they had agreed to follow at first. He ought to stick by it, now.

John barely acknowledged him, but what Terrence Embry saw in his eyes seemed to suffice to convince him that, should nothing else happen to Claire Kubik, John would follow the plan.

It was his idea, after all.

Embry wasn't entirely convinced the man was making the best decision for himself, but hell... There had been no talking him out of it, and all in all, it would have the desired effect as to their unofficial inquiry on Bill Marks. The first lieutenant couldn't exactly argue about that.

The younger man left the visiting room, and John headed back to his cell, waiting for Claire's arrival. Calming himself. Embry hadn't come to visit, meaning he didn't know about the intruder. About the attack. He couldn't greet Claire already angry.

He wasn't supposed to know.

Just like he wasn't supposed to be anyone else, anyone more than her husband, Tom Kubik.

Great job on that one.

When Claire arrived at the prison, they met in a private room – again. As they had last time, when Claire had come in and suggested him to take the deal. As if he was going to do something so stupid just because it would take the threat off her back. He'd be killed the moment his sentence would be made definitive, and then, no one would be left to ensure that they didn't shut her up too. Claire hadn't realized that, too ready to make sure he didn't end up sentenced to death. John could understand that; he didn't resent her for the suggestion.

He had refused, and now, here they were, in a private room. Again.

Sure, people could see through the glass, but they couldn't listen in. You had to understand, he was a dangerous prisoner, likely to snap anytime and start murdering people. It was better to keep an eye on him, even when he was with his wife – insert sarcasm here.

John was personally more concerned by the fact that his wife was hurt, had a freaking purple bruise of her face, because someone from El Salvador had wanted to come and get revenge.

He cringed. With the bruise, no need to pretend he didn't know. It was obvious something had happened to Claire. It was normal to make the assumption that it had been because of him.

He had fired the shots which had killed the villagers, after all. To anyone who didn't know the full story, it had looked like he was a murderer – and, in a way, he was; he wasn't denying that. But he wasn't the only one responsible, and he certainly wouldn't pay for someone else's "mistake".

Had Hernandez said something about the medicine, had they stopped his medication with that shit, nothing would have happened. The nine people he had killed would still be alive. Maybe he'd still be Ron Chapman – still not his real name, of course, but that would only be two identities instead of four. Perhaps he'd have come clean at some point, and become John Sullivan again. He might have had to leave the Marine Corps because of that stunt, sure, but it wasn't as if he had ever done anything criminal. He had been underage when he had taken on the name Ron Chapman, as it was.

Perhaps he'd still be a cop named John Sullivan, in New York. He'd have met Jessica on a vacation, or Claire during a case. Whichever it would have been, he could have been happy.

But Hernandez had shut his mouth, and John was here, today.

He'd have to deal with it.

James Hernandez wouldn't get away with what he had done, though. And should John not be able to make him pay for his silence, well... He would at least make sure that the major wouldn't get to try anything else of the kind.

John started pacing in the room, as Claire told him exactly what had happened at the house.

No...

"Bastard! It's Hernandez."

John knew it wasn't Hernandez per se, considering the man wasn't a Salvadoran with a grudge, but how had the survivor from Las Calinas found Claire? How, when the case wasn't being broadcasted on the news, when John's Kubik identity was being kept silent, had the man known where to look for? Who had told him that Claire Kubik was Ron Chapman's wife and lawyer?

There was only one way he could explain that, and it was that someone, if not Hernandez himself, had tipped off the vengeful bastard. To scare him, to scare Claire, to have them stop fighting back.

"I don't know how any of this works."

Claire's words, almost silent, shut him down for a moment. He stopped pacing, and looked her in the eyes, both trying to understand what she was thinking, and inwardly agreeing that, indeed, Claire had no idea what was really going on. Because, you know, he hadn't told her anything.

The good thing was, Hernandez didn't have a clue either, as to what game "Ron Chapman" was playing right now. He was probably wondering why he had gone with this half-truth...

Unless he had just chalked it up to a desire for vengeance. For all Hernandez knew, the effects from the medicine hadn't ever completely worn off – for all John knew too, but he rarely addressed the issue, since there was no way to know for sure. After the shooting, when Hernandez had come and stopped him from making more victims, John had reacted badly and attacked him too. After all, he was following the orders. He was doing what he had been told to do. What else was he supposed to do? How could Hernandez ask something of him, and then tell him he shouldn't have done it?

John wasn't under the influence of the medicament anymore, but he vividly remembered the feeling of confusion, of betrayal, which had escalated in more aggressiveness.

Whatever. John could deal with either scenari... as long as he didn't have to worry about Claire's safety. Which he was very worried about right now.

As if having a bunch of marines loyal to Hernandez to keep in check wasn't enough.

"What do you mean?"

Claire looked defeated. John didn't like it.

"This life of yours."

It meant she was starting to doubt him. And, perhaps, it was for the better. If things went too far, he didn't want her to mourn him. If Hernandez made it so that he'd have no choice but for Ron Chapman to die to end it... It would be better if she didn't think him a good man.

It didn't mean it wouldn't hurt.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

She shouldn't.

"Of course I believe you."

She didn't.

"I'll take a polygraph."

John didn't know what he wanted, truthfully; should she believe him, should she not? He was playing the unfairly accused husband, he had to play the part. He had to do everything he could to convince her. It didn't matter if he might not want to, all things considered.

Just as he was telling her he'd do it for them, even if it wasn't admissible in court – the lies are piling up, John – James Hernandez entered the visiting room. John didn't react right away – what was he doing there, to begin with? He knew that the major would never try anything against Claire with witnesses present, with other soldiers only a few meters away.

Against him, on the other hand... Considering John had accused him of multiple murders, it wouldn't even be surprising to the unknowing public. It was for him that Hernandez was here – possibly to show his darker side to Claire, too. Not that John minded so much, but the other man didn't know that.

"Hey Ronnie. Or Tommy. Or Paco. Or whatever it is."

John would have snorted at that. Hernandez didn't have the slightest idea how right he was with that one jibe. It wasn't even funny at this point – though he'd never take Paco as an alias. He didn't exactly look like a Paco, did he?

Except right now, John was angry.

Hernandez wanted a fight? He'd get one. First, because Ron was supposed to get angry in this situation. Second, because Tom's wife had been hurt, probably because of Hernandez. Third, because John was angry, regardless of the plan. Good thing it worked so well with the plan, right?

Hernandez led on, and Ron Chapman responded. In a matter of seconds, they were fighting, Claire was calling for help, and other marines were coming to get them separated.

Under his breath, while no one else was listening, Hernandez asked him:

"Why not the whole story, Ron?"

"Not my name."

"Oh, sorry, 'Tom'."

"Not my name either."

Of course, John's voice was so low then, that even Hernandez could only doubt what he had heard.


End file.
